From My Big Orange Book: Robert Frost

     I met this poem via a choral arrangement by Randall Thompson which we sang in high school. I immediately loved both text and musical setting, and have since considered the poem to be one of my favorites of all time.

"Choose Something Like a Star"

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud—
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says, 'I burn.'
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell us something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height.
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

A helpful analysis of this poem

A beautiful performance of Randall Thompson's setting, accompanied by stunning images taken from Hubble.

A Pianist's Farewell

     I wrote this in the monastery when I decided once and for all to give up the piano. Since I knew full well and for a long time that the day would come, when it did come it really wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. Still, it was emotional.

     After I left the cloister and began to submit my poems for publication, I sent this one in to the 2008 Utmost Christian Poets Contest (Novice Division), an international contest out of Canada. At that time it was titled "A Pianist's Farewell upon Entering the Cloister." To my genuine surprise, it won Best Rhyming Poem and Third Prize Over All. Shortly after that, it was published in The Storyteller magazine under its present, less cumbersome, title.

 

A Pianist's Farewell

 

I never thought to leave you, friend,

Who were the very breath of me,

My working day, my restless night,

The steersman of my destiny.

I made a solemn vow to you—

Or was it you to me? Who knows?

It was so long a life ago,

And thieving time too fleeting goes.

 

Was ever there a day, an hour,

That was not colored by your voice?

You snatched me from the womb, I think,

Purloined from me all will and choice ...

Ah, no, I tease you, dearest friend!

To you I may so freely speak,

For you have known my deepest deep

And bore me up to heaven's peak.

 

With you, I soared beyond my self;

Upon your keys, I knew no fear

Of man, or dreams, or my own heart—

My aim was true, my vision clear.

Through you, I gave my laughter words;

Through you, I let my sorrow weep;

To you I told my greatest love,

And in you, let my secret sleep.

 

You were my solace and my strength,

My wise and faithful confidante.

Though now I live without your voice,

My memory its echoes haunt.

It must be so. If ever we

Should meet again, I cannot tell.

I loved you, heart and soul and mind,

O truest, dearest friend. Farewell.

 

© Leticia Austria 2006

The World Perceived

The world grew larger when we met.
Before these once more eager eyes
a sphere has beckoned, waking me
to revel in the endless chase
of knowledge, music, art, and words,
at once my duty and desire.

The world grew smaller when we met,
its details all within my reach,
its countries but a step away.
The vault of paradise bowed down
and let me touch the silver hem
I once believed was only mist.          (rev. 01/11)


[First published in WestWard Quarterly]

Matthew & Jeremiah

These are two of my earliest poems, written when I was in the monastery and reading a lot of Christina Rossetti. I've always loved archaic language, and loved imitating older poetry -- until a priest who is also a published poet came to visit the monastery, read my poems, and told me no editor will publish poems in archaic language, unless it's used sparingly, for a specific effect, or to make a point. Consequently, I've never submitted my early poems anywhere, but neither will I hide them away. I wrote them in all sincerity; they are the fruits of much meditation, and indicative of my particular spirituality. I post them on this Pentecost Sunday in gratitude to the Holy Spirit, in whom I trust, move, and am.

Matthew 6:6

O take me to that room whose door
When shut behind admits no more;
But, op'ning ne'er again, keeps hid
What world and fleshly pleasures chid;
A solitude of soul wherein
The mysteries of life are seen
With eyes made clear by inner light,
Of Spirit born, the truest sight.

O give me of the empty deep
Where human tempests find their sleep,
Where sacred silence stills all thought
In mind with tangled musings frought:
'Tis there the soul keeps vigil sweet,
'Tis there she finds her joy complete,
'Tis there she quits the dinning throng
And hearkens to her Lover's song.


Jeremiah 29:12-14

Belovèd mine, where may I find Thee?
Wherefore art Thou hiding still?
Through misty dark my soul doth wander,
Shiv'ring in the friendless chill.

O speak, that I Thy voice may follow,
Speak, that I may find my trove!
Have pity, for my pray'rs are weary;
Day and night they ceaseless move.

Hast Thou a word for me, Belovèd?
Some faint hope wilt Thou impart?
If thou dost seek Me, thou shalt find Me;
Only look within thy heart.

Three Lives

Three years ago, I was inspired by Christina Rossetti's sonnet "A Triad," which conveys the effects of love on three different women: a fallen woman, a love-starved spinster, and a wife.

     A Triad by Christina Rossetti

     Three sang of love together: one with lips
          Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
     Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
          And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
          Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
     And one was blue with famine after love,
          Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
     The burden of what those were singing of.
     One shamed herself in love; one temperately
          Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
     One famished died for love. Thus two of three
          Took death for love and won him after strife;
     One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
          All on the threshold, yet all short of life.

I took the "triad" concept and applied it, in a poem of my own, to one woman who passes through three distinct life phases. I guess it's pretty obvious that the woman in the poem is me.

I tried to make use of symbolism, some of which is repeated (ivory, silver, dancing, robe, flesh). This was intentional, in order to give a hint before the final stanza that the three women are actually one.

     Three Lives

     There was a woman long ago
     Whose soul was buried in the snow;
     Her heart was kept inside a box
     Of ivory, locked with silver locks;
     And since her modest robe was torn,
     She used her flesh to keep her warm.
She danced until the stars grew cold and pale,
Believing dance would serve where love might fail.

     Another, disillusioned, cast
     Aside the falseness of her past,
     And laid her soul upon the breast
     Of Him Who is our final rest;
     The whiteness of the robe she wore
     Absolved the crimson scars she bore.
Her steps were silent on the ancient stone;
She held the world inside and danced alone.

     And then a third, who found a soul
     To flame her own, who found the whole
     Of Heaven in a noble love
     That raised her mind to things above;
     A love that lived unrealized
     In touch, a fleshless sacrifice.
She kept her secret in an ivory box
Until her song unlocked the silver locks.

     Three lives -- of flesh, of soul, of heart --
     Three different women stood apart;
     Yet, bound by blood and bone, each knew
     The three were one: a woman who
     Was born but once, yet lived life thrice,
     As toy of man, then bride of Christ,
And then as troubadour placed out of time,
Who eased her heart's complaint with salving rhyme.           (May 2009)


["Three Lives" was first published in The Eclectic Muse.]